


A Perfect Night

by AmberZ10



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham City Sirens (Comics), Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: Basically just drabble, Don't Overthink It, Ed Sheeran - Freeform, F/F, Oneshot, galway girl au, harley's a brit, pam is irish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberZ10/pseuds/AmberZ10
Summary: Galway Girl AU.





	A Perfect Night

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's better when you're listening to the song as you read it. But that's just me.

It was 11:15 and the set still hadn’t started.

_Jesus Christ._

The bar was full, mostly with local residents. Harley could tell because they seemed to have a specific smell to them. They smelled of whiskey and grass and maybe a bit of salt…something entirely Irish. Harley wondered if she had a smell. Well, she was sure she did, as the bar was hot and crowded and it was the summertime and in her rush to the airport this morning she’d neglected deodorant. But she wondered if these people could get past the B.O. to smell the English on her.

Harley was typically easy-going. She didn’t care much for responsibility or even punctuality. She was the type to pick up and fly to Galway on a whim to watch her favorite band play in a little pub down on the water front. That being said, at this point she’d been waiting 20 minutes for a drink and even she thought that was a bit ridiculous.

At 5’2”, there was no way she could see over the men at the counter to figure out what was taking the bartender so long. Though Harley guessed she was flirting for tips. Harley couldn’t blame her. A girl’s gotta make her money somehow. But come on!

“Aye!” Harley was finally fed up. “What’s a girl hafta do to get a drink in this place?!”

The man directly in front of her swiveled on his stool, chuckling as he looked her up and down. “I can’t imagine you’ll have much trouble—,”

“Displayin’ some manners would be a good start,” the bartender spoke, and as soon as Harley saw her, all sense of urgency drained from her body. “Everyone else here waited their turn. Patiently. I’ve only got the two arms, ya see.”

“Look, I just want a pint, OK?”

“A pint?” she replied dryly, raising an elegant eyebrow as she slid a whiskey across the counter to the man who’d turned around to laugh at Harley. “Of what?”

Harley swallowed, her eyes traveling to the seemingly infinite list of what was on tap. “Um…I’m not…I don’t know…”

The bartender laughed—a smooth, melodic sound that almost would have calmed Harley’s nerves if she hadn’t been laughing at her. “You mean ta say…” she leaned over the bar, displaying what were most certainly making her tips for her. “Ya pushed ta the front of the line, made a big fuss…and didn’t even have your drink prepared?” she clicked her tongue when Harley didn’t respond. “The English. When will they ever learn?”

This elicited some chuckles from the men around them.

Harley didn’t like being the butt of anyone’s joke, least of all The Irish. “Why don’t you tell me what I should get?” she suggested with all the bravery she had. “You must have something to recommend.”

“Oh, I do,” the woman grinned. “But you don’t look like a Guinness girl to me.”

“What does a Guinness girl look like?”

“Well, she’s Irish, to begin with.” She turned away from Harley, tucking a long strand of red hair behind her ear before reaching for a bottle on the top shelf. “And she doesn’t listen to Birds of Prey.”

Now Harley was offended again, so she finally pushed up to the counter. “They’re good! You’d like them.”

“Believe me, Miss. I do.” The bartender was pouring a bright green liquid into a glass. “But I don’t drink Guinness.”

“Is this your favorite drink?”

“It’s my favorite color.”

“Because of your eyes?”

The woman laughed. “I don’t pay much attention to the color of me own eyes. But I suppose that was a nice enough line fer me ta ask yer name.”

“Harley.” She smiled, watching as the last ingredient was poured into her glass. “And you?”

The redhead placed a napkin on the counter first before setting the drink down in front of Harley. “Isley.”

“That’s your first name?”

“No, but I can’t have you callin’ me ‘Pamela’, now can I?” she bit her lip and Harley wanted very much to do the same.

“I think that’s a nice name,” Harley told her.

Isley laughed. “Are ya sure you’re not drunk already?”

Harley grinned, pausing their conversation to take a drink. It was so sweet Harley was sure it would give her cavities, but she couldn’t care less. It was perfect. “What is this?”

“We call it a Fat Frog,” Isley moved on to serve another costumer. “Clearly ya haven’t spent much time in Ireland.”

“No, but I—,” Harley took another drink before finishing. “—Like your accent.”

“When everyone in here sounds the same but you, I’m pretty sure you’ve got the accent, Blondie.” Isley winked back in her direction.

“Harley.”

“Ya haven’t tipped me enough ta make me care.”

Harley concealed her grin as best as she could. “You’re not going to lean over for me again?”

“From the pink in your cheeks, it seems once was enough.”

Harley felt her face get hot (again), but Isley was already speaking to another costumer before she could come up with a response.

“Ah, yer not stiffing me tonight, Eddie,” she was chastising the ginger man that sat beside Harley. “I brought the girls out for ye.” She playfully adjusted the black bra showing through her white, low cut tank top.

“I’ll give ye $20 to put those things away.” He sneered in response.

“Ah, don’t ruin the fun for the rest of us, Eddie, you feckin’ gobshite.” A woman shouted at him from the other end of the bar.

“Don’t think you’re getting’ away with it either, Kyle,” Isley warned, plopping a shot down in front of her. “Ye’d be sober an’ borin’ if it weren’t for me.”

“I’d be rich, is what ya mean,” the woman joked before downing the shot.

Harley dug around in her wallet, pulling out 10 euros and placing it on the bar. “There. Not bad for one drink, aye?”

“Don’t forget the stimulatin’ conversation,” Isley smirked, collecting the tip and slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans.

“Maybe I could use some more stimulating,” Harley suggested.

Isley seemed almost surprised by her bluntness, but she eventually tossed her head back to laugh. “Me shift ends in 20 minutes. You can buy me a drink. I’m in the mood ta get trollied.”

“Do they have troll—,”

“Or, what is it, Selina?” Isley shouted back over to the woman at the end of the bar.

“Sloshed!”

Isley grinned. “Let’s get sloshed.” 

Harley wanted to listen to the music, she really did, it’s what she’d come all the way out here for, after all. But as the concert went on, she found she was much more interested in Isley’s interpretation of the songs. She was rather good, it turned out. Could certainly carry a tune. She knew fewer lyrics than Harley did, but sang them much better.

“Your tattoo!” she was yelling over the music.

“What?” Harley said.

“Your tattoo! What does it mean?”

“Oh.” Harley glanced down at the Gaelic writing on her arm. “It’s a song I used to like.”

“By who?”

“Someone I wish I’d never met.”

“Mm.” Isley’s smile was mute, but had an understanding to it that loosened a knot in Harley’s stomach. One that Harley sometimes forgot existed. “Was he a musician?”

 _Oh no_. “You’re not one too, are you?”

Isley laughed, squeezing Harley’s hand for reassurance. “I’ve been known to pick up a fiddle, but calling yerself a ‘musician’ takes a certain vanity that I reserve for other thin’s.”

“Like w—,”

“My ass.”

And now Harley was laughing, and if felt like she didn’t stop laughing for some time. Isley got up on a table near the end of the set to see the band better, and sang along louder than ever. That seemed to delight the lead singer, who ended up inviting her on stage. When Isley said she’d “been known to pick up a fiddle”, she was being modest. Extremely so. She played her fiddle right along with the band without skipping a beat. Harley made sure to record that, grinning like an idiot the whole time, an odd sense of pride in her chest for the talents of a woman she’d just met.

Harley could tell the band liked the atmosphere because they had Isley pour them a drink after, then stuck around to get their asses kicked in darts.

The night was still warm when they left—well, warm for Galway, which still required a sweater. Harley watched her feet as she skipped from cobblestone to cobblestone, splashing in nearly every puddle she found. She wasn’t a child; she was just drunk.

“And who’ll be cleanin’ me carpet after you’ve muddied it, hm?” Isley asked as the water splashed up Harley’s legs.

Harley giggled, looking at the high heels Isley had hanging off her index finger, her feet bare. “Please tell me you have food at your house.”

“It’s all Selina’s food, so…wine and Doritos.”

“My favorite things!”

Isley laughed. “You’re completely locked, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just…happy,” Harley told her, unable to stop smiling. “You make me happy.”

When Isley smiled, it seemed to mostly be to herself. “And how do ye know that? You’ve just met me, after all.”

Harley shrugged, bumping her playfully with her shoulder. “It’s just a feeling, you know? Feels like…a perfect night, with the perfect girl.”

“Yer pretty Galway girl, am I?” Isley was being cheeky.

“And here I thought you were modest.”

“About me fiddle playin’, yes,” Isley laughed. “But I’m afraid I own a mirror, Harley, and I’m not blind.”

Smiling softly, perhaps a bit nervously for the first time since she was sober, Harley kicked at a loose stone. “So then, if I tried to kiss you right now…you’d see that coming? On account of your not being blind?” Harley looked up to gauge her reaction, but as soon as she turned her head, there were soft, warm lips pressed against hers, and hands wrapped snuggly around her waist.

“The English,” Isley smiled against her. “When will they ever learn?”


End file.
